


stick your fingers in hot water (you'll only get burned)

by gabriphales



Series: gomens drabble hell [38]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Internal Monologue, M/M, Pining, basically crowley yearns and feels bad abt it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24133066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: crowley considers himself a well-adjusted individual. he's anything but. a brief, drabbly look into how he perceives himself, and his attraction to aziraphale. (i.e., crowley feeling like a danger and hating himself for it.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: gomens drabble hell [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664713
Kudos: 22





	stick your fingers in hot water (you'll only get burned)

**Author's Note:**

> i be projecting

he trembles. soft-hearted and warm-tongued. his very existence the antithesis to all parts of a demon that make up their pride. he's too kind. too gentle. though he argues that point with empty words and a broken speed dial, he knows he's too easy to see through. reckless driving, threatless violence, those are his worst crimes. and aziraphale, for all he scolds him, knows there's nothing but careful intent behind the deeds.

crowley values life more than any demon should. more than any angel would. and it breaks him. he's broken. he's scared.

touching aziraphale feels like a sin unspeakable. he's only dared the transgression a few times in his life. a tap on the shoulder, a brush of their hands. flesh scraping against flesh, violent in inherent nature - they're not on opposite sides, crowley reminds himself, but he's still the coded villain here. he's still the figure wearing black. always stepping aside to let holy creatures go at their own fragile pace. it's his only way of living, if he wants to live in aziraphale's company.

the first time they get drunk together - really, properly drunk - crowley has to excuse himself after one too many words, and not enough blank spaces. he keeps talking, keeps saying whatever first comes to mind, hoping it might flood out that shivering curd of self-loathing dread. the one he holds so close to his chest. rotten fingers, rotten hands. he can't touch aziraphale with all this filth tucked under his nails, crooked inside the lines of his palms. 

aziraphale's soft and pink in the dim lighting of petronious's bar. he laughs when crowley laughs, smiles when crowley gets closer. and that's too full a danger to hazard holding pleasure to. he leaves before his thoughts can get any worse. before he can bear to imagine it - 

_(aziraphale's arms around his back, aziraphale's mouth against the hard knot in his throat. aziraphale's thighs, white and mellow, smooth to touch. how they'd blossom open under crowley's kind command. how beautiful he'd look like that. spread out, spread open, a lamb with its neck bared.)_

his stomach clenches with heat and tepid nausea. his hands ball into fists, dutifully pledged to stay trapped at his sides. if he doesn't reach out, he won't be tempted to touch. he, the original tempter, the seed of indulgence to take root in humanity, should know that of all people.

and sometimes, sometimes aziraphale wants more than he can give. glancing with coy, bashful smiles at his sour-tempered savior, locked up in a prison, bound at the wrists. he'll flit his stares back and forth, encroaching on crowley's body in the only way a pious angel can allow themselves. eating him up with a single look, never anything more.

crowley keeps his eyes on the floor. reciprocation is beyond what he can take.

"well, you're lucky i was in the area." he drawls, smooth and silver-toned, rich in the thick of his heavy voice. despite what he says aloud, he'll never think aziraphale fortunate to have a demon sprawling after him. a _threat._ something foul, untempered. pustulating and sore with the weight of heavy, blackened wings.

 _it's only a matter of time._ he thinks, against his better judgement. _until i hurt him, until i lose control._

he doesn't even know what he's controlling. other than the thoughts. the urges, the _sin._ despicable, wretched, unworthy. he's lying to aziraphale with every move he makes. convincing his angel he's a being worth sticking around with to see the best of him, the goodness he still pursues.

"you really are quite a nice person," aziraphale tells him one day, the words faintly hidden from watchful eyes beneath convent walls. crowley burns like he's never burned before, sharp and humid in his skull, smoking all the way down his throat. he can't help choking on it, can't help trying to breathe, even though he doesn't need to.

he feels like a monster again. and he makes sure aziraphale knows it.

but aziraphale doesn't flinch away from him. if anything, he looks merely intrigued. peering into crowley's expression, on a hunt for deeper hurt. crowley has to pull away before he digs any further. he might actually find something, after all.

though he doesn't dare admit it to himself, he wants to believe aziraphale. for the first time in twelve centuries past, he's closer to getting there than he is to running away from it.


End file.
